


Warm

by billspilledquill



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Holding Hands, M/M, Pretend Relationship (ish), Ring Exchange, this is stupid and historical accuracy has left me for a better man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Goethe takes his hand and kisses it. Flashes the ring in his. “Young man, we are married. And no, before you ask, we are not in Vegas.”“You’re my best friend who’s just waking up from a concussion, I played a trick on you and said we were married and you have amnesia, but you just rolled with it and now I don’t know what to do” AU





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melian12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melian12/gifts).



> For the wonderful Melian12, who is so kind to discuss with me and also shares a love for these dead, dead people <3 Thank you so much!  
> 

 

Schiller is not thrilled by the idea of breaking your head in half.

Actually, he is very, very much against the idea. He sits upright in bed with some difficulty, the mattress creaking at his every movement. With his hand buried in his hair, he blinks a few times, the light steaming down the blankets. He squints.

Too many blankets, he thinks. He drags his arm to the bedsheets, clutching them without noticing. He blinks again, letting himself feeling the sun draining the water off this head or body or corpse, until a slender hand is on his.

Taking pride for himself at not making a sound, he eyes a shadow that seems to be here all along. What was it doing?

He can’t make out the face. He tries again. The hand on his feels warm. He opens his mouth, almost cringes at the hoarse sound that seemingly came out of his own throat, “Who are you?”

The man stares. The hand doesn’t move away. His eyes finally clear and zoom in. The almost almond hair in the sun. Pupils blown with a hint of fear and something else.

 _Goethe_.

“Oh,” he says, dumb-founded. “Excuse me, I have lost sight for a second there, of course I know who you are, my friend.”

A wash of relief seems to pass through the man. His shoulders lost its rigidity. The goddamn hand. He scoffs.

“Can I have some water, please?”

Goethe jumps a little at the words. “Sure,” he said, finally moving his hand away. Schiller closes his eyes for a moment, rejoicing in the soft clatters of utensils and water service. But when he opens his eyes, there are a malicious glint in the other man’s eyes that make him shudder.

Nothing good.

“Thank you,” he said, enjoying the offer, their fingers touch briefly. “Ah– how long have I been in bed?”

“Too long for a functional human being,” Goethe answered, that cat like malice still in his expression. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” he said. “As if my skull has been out of my head.”

Goethe laughed, his curls falling over his face. The hand is back and Schiller doesn’t mind. “You will be fine.”

“If you say so, old man.”

“So,” Goethe started, his smile turning into a side-loop grin. Nothing good happens when he makes that face. And nothing good it did. “How is my husband not recognizing me when he wakes up from a concussion?”

His head suddenly hurts even more. “What?”

Goethe takes his hand and kisses it. Flashes the ring in his. “Young man, we are married. And no, before you ask, we are not in Vegas.”

“...Married.”

“For three years, love,” he said. The theatrics. God, the audacity of this man. “And you just can just forget me like that.”

The man looks up at him through his lashes. There are unspoken words and laughter in his smile. He seems to be waiting for him to say something to blow this off. To call this off as a friendly prank. Well, he thinks. What can be worse that a concussion anyway, and kisses right back at his hand.

A gasp is heard. It feels like a victory.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he says, trying not to burst his cover, so he kisses Goethe’s hand some more. It tightens around his. “If only I knew—“

The hand is yanked back, and Schiller smiles at his wide eyed friend. “Are you still mad at me? I said I was sorry, but please,” he says, “let me make it up to you, now.”

This is risky for a game, he knows. But he is not young for nothing. So he leans closer to Goethe, ignoring the ache on his back, and put his lips on his friend’s cheek. It is warmer than his hand, he muses.

He straightens himself once more, and Goethe covers his face with his hand for awhile, savoring the defeat. He grunts, “You are better at those malicious schemes than me, my friend.”

Schiller waves his hand, gracefully accepting the surrender. “Please husband, call me Friedrich.”

Another grunt. “Are you just going to play with me for the rest of my life with this?”

He tries his best to shrug, even though Goethe doesn’t bring his colored face out off his hands. “Probably. Going to live with you for the rest of my life, after all, husband.”

“I hate you.”

“I like you well,” he says. “So joke’s on you.”

The curls fall even more on Goethe’s face when he leans down like this. Schiller brings a tread between his fingers. “Look at me, would you?”

Something babbles. A butterfly’s wing.

“ _Please?_ ”

Goethe looks up reluctantly. The eyes shine in between the disheveled hair and his fingers. Something unspeakable. The butterfly learns to fly.

“You know,” Schiller says. “If you want to, you can pretend a little more.”

Goethe blinks, stares out the window. Schiller sees in his eyes the color of the brittled white, the clouds, the snow. The butterfly would die, its wings heavy with nature’s spit. Goethe seems like a poem. A very beautiful one.

“My husband doesn’t frown like this,” Schiller adds. “Who are you?”

Goethe turns, his eyes sincere. “Your friend, Friedrich.”

He hums. “Well, I am certainly very honored to have you as friend. Now, where is my husband? He is about this height,” he says, and gestures a stool.

“I really don’t know where he is.”

“Really,” he replies. “Because I just hear him say that he likens me as his friend. Not everyone has his height like you do, good sir.”

“Call me short again and I will let you eat that stool, young man.”

They look a little more into each other’s eyes, and seeing nothing, burst out laughing. Schiller’s ribcage shakes with the laughter. The tears glister in Goethe’s, probably.

“This is by far my worst idea I have ever made,” Goethe says breathlessly. “I should have second thoughts before deciding pranking you, my friend.”

Schiller tilts his head. “Worst than _Elective Affinities_?”

Goethe crosses his arms defensively, but a smile is there, a reminder. “You promised me not to talk about that.”

They share another small laugh, then silence. It is comfortable enough to pretend that it isn’t oppressive.

Schiller unconsciously passes over his ring with his fingers. A round, smooth little thing, it traps him into places that he doesn’t want to thinking about.

He reaches to Goethe’s hand, catching the sight of the ring of the other man’s. “You’re staring,” Goethe says. “Sees something you like?”

Very much, he wants to say. “Nice ring,” he says instead. “I wouldn’t pick this tone. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Why?”

“You can’t handle gold for your life.”

“Oh?” He arches an eyebrow. “Then what would you choose?”

It is a challenge, he knows. A game where all of them lose. Schiller is good at these kind of games, losing. He hums, taking off his own ring and placing it in his friend’s finger.

“That’s what I would choose,” he says. His plain and copper ring in another’s hand. Too much, it’s too much. He might as well get hit in the head again. There’s a chuckle, a little high pitched and nervous, and Goethe wraps his hand in his. His ring-less hand feels bare, and explains the shiver he feels down his spine.

“I think you suit gold very well, Friedrich.” He says, and gives his. Schiller blinks, moves his hand, stretches it through the waves of sunlight. It shines bright.

This is the part where we kiss and declare love for each other, he thinks. This is the part where metaphors give no way to alliterations.

Goethe’s wild curls are placid on his head. Here is the man I admired my whole life. I don’t think it will get more ridiculous than that. He places his lips on the carved, gold ring. It is cold, nothing like his friend’s hand. He supposes that it’s enough.

“The truth is,” he says. “I have always liked gold. I just didn’t want to steal it from you.”

Goethe smiles softly. He couldn’t help but return that gesture. It should be enough. “I have liked copper as well. It’s a good bargain.”

“Come on,” Goethe says, putting a hand on his arm. The ring doesn’t shine, but his eyes do. “Let’s get you dressed.”

So Schiller wonders, when he leans toward him, if he has always been this warm. Both of them are so, so warm.

He likes it a _lot._

 


End file.
